Grapes Making
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Noon sun beats down the leaf; the noon Of summer burns along the vine And thins the leaf with burning air, Till from the underleaf is fanned, And down the woven vine, the light. Still the pleached leaves drop layer on layer To wind the sun on either hand, And echos of the light are bound, And hushed the blazing cheek of light, The hurry of the breathless noon, And from the thicket of the vine The grape has pressed into its round. The grape has pressed into its round, And swings, aloof chill green, clean won Of light, between the sky and ground; Those hid, soft-flashing lamps yet blind, Which yield an apprehended sun. Fresh triumph in a courteous kind, Having more ways to be, and years, And easy, countless treasuries, You whose all-told is still no sum, Like a rich heart, well-said in sighs, The careless autumn mornings come, The grapes drop glimmering to the shears. Now shady sod at heel piles deep, An overarching shade, the vine Across the fall of noon is flung; And here beneath the leaves is cast A light to colour noonday sleep, While cool, bemused the grape is swung Beneath the eyelids of the vine; And deepening like a tender thought Green moves along the leaf, and bright The leaf above, and leaf has caught, And emerald pierces day, and last The faint leaf vanishes to light. #which yield an apprehended sun
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Credits
- Writers
- Léonie Adams